No tomatoes, please

The other day I was at the local Teeter looking for some sort of fruit because my body is going into some sort of nutrient withdrawal because I eat Alpine every day. I think in modern science that is called death. But anyway, I was looking at some grapes and hark! I saw, right there before me, the plastic bags of dark burgundy, huge, ripe cherries. And they were on sale! It was an exciting moment for me, which I guess confused the produce guy who was taking them off the display for the night and who was apparently a little uncomfortable with my enthusiasm.

But anyone could understand my enthusiasm about cherries. In the vast pantheon of fruit, cherries stand way above most of the rest. The luscious, dark, wonderfully juicy little fruit has such a delicate flavor reminiscent of the sweetest of plums that doesn’t even vaguely resemble the fake cherry flavor of the medicines of our childhood or, worse, those insipidly neon maraschino cherries. They are, in fact, in the same family as plums, peaches and other fleshy fruits wrapped around large pits, and it’s no small wonder that those are among the most awesome fruits ever, let’s be honest.

It’s still amazing to me that I never tasted a fresh cherry until about a year ago. And I’m so glad that they don’t taste anything like anything “cherry flavored.” Because, let’s be honest, of all of the terrible approximations of fruit flavors, cherry is definitely the worst. Though none actually taste anything like the fruit they’re supposed to be resembling, grape is generally passable and orange is always yummy somehow. But cherry is never good. I mean, the red popsicles are always the last ones you go for, and cherry triaminic is so the worst (besides the yellow, I mean, what flavor is that even supposed to be?) On a weird side note, orange Triaminic is The. Best. Shit. Ever. Like, my mouth is watering just thinking about it. I’ve always hope to find orange soda that tasted as yummy as the orange medicine, but no dice.

There are tons of varieties of cherries, but only a few are sold widely in America. There are pretty much either the dark red to burgundy bing cherries, or those yellow/pink-ish red Rainier cherries which are way more expensive. There are also sour cherries, but those are used mostly for cooking. Most cherry cultivation takes place in the US in Washington and Oregon and the Pacific Northwest, so, not so eco-friendly, but whatever, Barbara Kingsolver can suck it, they’re awesome.

Also, I don’t think I’ve ever had anything with cooked cherries in it, but I feel like they pobably lose a lot of their magic when subjected to heat and pie and other ingredients to taint their natural splendor. But, ya know, if you want cherry pie, I’m sure there’s a great recipe out there. Here’s a good-looking recipe for cherry upside-down cake from the ridic blog Smitten Kitchen which is lovely and well-written and totes makes me jealous.

Also, cherries totally make you poop! They also have like, antioxidants or some other crap. So there, so many good reasons to love cherries.

Related:

Cherry Information

Smitten Kitchen

Yeah, this as nothing to do with food. But I can’t get back to the important things in life until I tackle this first.

OK. So, since I moved to the Chapel on the Hill permanently, I was hoping that I would write in my blog on a regular-enough basis for it to be entertaining. Unfortunately, I have been caught up in this horrible cabin fever/lack of motivation/horrible depression/even more horrible anxiety/low self-esteem spiral, and have had no motivation to do anything but sleep late, watch Maury and take naps while simultaneously trying not to cry all day and remember to take the dog out so the doesn’t piss on my rug.

Yeah, I’m crazy. But only a little. And it comes in waves. Unfortunately, a bad wave was coming and I attempted to stave it off by taking the semester off and going home to Charlotte to rest and recoup, but then my life kind of completely imploded and changed in crazy ways that would leave most people a trembling bundle of nerves and tears.

So, in an attempt to make myself feel better and not sabotage my relationship with anxiety and craziness, I’m gonna pull myself up by my damn Birkenstock flip-flop straps and be happy. I’m not gonna let this bullshit win and ruin my life. And the first thing I’m gonna go is make a list of reasons why I am totally awesome and deserving of amazing, wonderful lovely things and happiness and feelings and LOVE. This will stay here for me to look at and add on to periodically. If you have any other ideas, let me know. So here goes:

• I love that I put together my ikea queen-sized bed in 45 freakin minutes with only a screwdriver and picture-only instructions. And that I can put together any desk, table, bookcase or chair you put in front of me.
• I love that I look good with no make-up and in jeans and a v-neck t-shirt, but when I decide to do it up right and wear make-up for a special occasion, I look so super bangin’ and beautiful that it blows everyone away.
• I love that I have awesome taste in movies and can thoughtfully dissect and discuss any movie I see. And put it on paper for money, bitches.
• I love that I can bake cakes, rolls, bread, souffles, pies, baklavas and myriad other fancy pastries and also scramble an egg or boil pasta and cook pretty much anything I feel like without fear of failure (if only I could extend that to other aspects of my life).
• I love that I can actually truly succeed at anything I set my mind to. The problem is setting my mind to something besides wallowing in sadness.
• I love my ass. Not gonna lie, it’s really amazing. And no one believes me until they get a nice good look and I wear my yoga pants, and they’re like, damn. I also love my eyes, my lips, my hair, my ears, my calves, my feet and my little lady stomach pooch. Yeah, I like it. It means I’m soft and lady-like. And awesome.
• I love that I can answer at least half of the questions on Jeopardy! every night without even really paying attention.
• I love that I can totally rap along to Kanye West songs and do a not terrible job. Seriously, I totally got “Gold Digger.”
• I love that I can do shots of whiskey like a dude and not complain about it.
• I love that I know how to knit and iron and do dishes and hang a picture and use a drill and check my oil.
• I love that I can knock out an awesome 10-page paper the night before it’s due, and that I can help friends do the same thing.
• I love that I obsessively buy books. I love that I’m surrounded by books that I love or would love, if I ever got around to reading them.
• I love that I can do the Monday crossword in about 15 minutes. And that I can get at least some of the clues on the Sunday crossword.
• I love that I know a lot about clothes and shoes and purses and cars and feminism.
• I love that I can sing opera.
• I love that I loathe “Grey’s Anatomy,” like “Sex and the City,” and love “How It’s Made.”
• I love that I don’t complain about how fat I am around others or feel the need to eat a salad (or worse, nothing) in front of a dude.
• I love that I’m horribly clumsy and drop things and cut myself and poke myself in the eye, and that I can walk in high heels.
• I love that I love anything on VH1 Classic that has anything to do with heavy metal.
• I love that I’ve never done anything more hardcore than alcohol and a few puffs of a clove cigarette. (But I still love you if you do other stuff. Just don’t make me do it.)
• I love that I’m not high maintenance and that I can just hang, or chill, or be cool.
• I love that I could probably still beat you with a stick (or large piece of metal, either way) even though I haven’t fenced in years.
• I love that I can make really awesome pool shots.
• I love that I can string words together in an awesome manner that lend a gravity to my thoughts and feelings that others find humorous and interesting and can relate to.
• I love that I can use big words. And would probably win at Scrabble if I weren’t playing my mom. Or if it didn’t make me want to claw my eyeballs out.
• I love that I’m completely awkward and can’t dance at all, but I’m totally willing to let you teach me anyway.
• I love my sense of humor. I love that I make people laugh, heartily and in large numbers. I love that I can parlay my horrible awkwardness into funny, and that I’m cool with people laughing at me. As long as I’m laughing too.

Ok, whew, that’s a lot to love. Hopefully this can get me through. Hopefully anyone out there loves these things too!

So, apparently, Gordom Ramsay is even gettin in on the whole quick meal craze. Here’s a really interesting story I found on slate.com about his new quick cookbook. It brings up some interesting points about how the recipes completely don’t translate over to American palettes (blood sausage in less than half an hour, anyone? yum), and how American armchair cooks won’t even bother trying the recipes anyway, opting to instead look at all those purty pictures and drool. I don’t do the whole recipe thing, and though I have some cookbooks, I really don’t care about looking at pretty pictures.

Can I just say though, that as long as there are plenty of pictures of Ramsay, I might be in the market for a new cookbook. Seriously, I know this dude is kind of a total douche bag, but look at the man! He’s beautiful. And on the show on BBC where he transforms failing restaurants in a week, there’s always a lovely shot of him with his shirt off while he’s changing into his chef’s jacket.

Even though he’s super mean, I really like that he encourages people that he really believes in, and even though he’s definitely got the tough love going on, you know when he’s nice to you that he really means it and that it means more to the person to have impressed someone with such impossibly high standards. Also, he’s super hot. The fact that he curses like a sailor only makes him more attractive.

So, cookbook. Warm blood sausage in 30 minutes? No. Gordon Ramsay for half an hour? Yes, please.

So last night I was testing a recipe for Cook’s Illustrated, and I remembered how in love I am with bok choy. It’s one of those things that you never really think about or care about trying, but once you have it, you’re all, “Damn, why did I not try this before?” I dunno, maybe you’re lazy. But seriously, bok choy is really great. Even though the recipe didn’t turn out so hot (that’s kinda what I hate about recipes, every one I’ve ever made is kind of not very flavorful, especially ones for Asian things. Wtf recipes.), the bok choy was seriously the best part. I kind of wished we had just sauteed it by itself and just eaten that.

So that picture above is baby bok choy. The regular kind is a lot bigger and the stalks are white with dark green leaves. Like, oh yes, right there:

Either way, it’s delicious. For the bigger kind, wash it and chop it up into smaller pieces, and for the baby bok choy, you can just wash and then slice the entire bunch lengthwise, or  tear all the separate stalks off and saute them. It’s so good sauteed or blanched for a minute. It’s got such a light buttery flavor, almost velvet-y. For a green, it’s quite mild, and it’s so delicious. Oh man, I’m getting excited just thinking about it. When you’re done sauteeing just throw some sesame oil on it and some sesame seeds and you’re good to go. Yum.

Yeah, sorry, not very inspired today, but I got other stuff going on. Gross food abounds tomorrow!

Since I recently bought a loaf of bread for the first time in, oh, 2 months? I’ve been eating a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches lately, and, ya know what? I freakin love and totally enjoy every one of them. The PB&J is such a simple, joyous experience. The easiest of all sandwiches, by far. Just open some jars. No condiments, or meat and cheese, or tomato or lettuce (if you’re into that kind of thing). No heating or anything special, except maybe excising the crusts if you’re feeling particularly motivated. Endless possibilities.

Since, as a general rule, I hate peanut butter (probably stemming from the horrid odor that would emit from my father after he ate it STRAIGHT OUT OF THE JAR. WITH A SPOON. I seriously gag just thinking about it), one would think that the PB&J would be out for me. My grandma used to counteract that by mixing the jelly with the peanut butter in a mug (always a mug, you need some good grip from the handle if you’re going to be stirring all that sticky peanut butter and jam) before spreading it on the bread. Which left a terrible mess for my mother, the dishwasher extraordinaire, later when she had to scrape dried peanut butter and jelly out of all of the mugs. Sorry!

But if you get enough jelly in there to counteract the flavor of the peanut butter, the best kind of alchemy happens. You end up with a really beautiful plum-colored paste that’s sweet and rich, with nary a trace of the too-rich nut flavor that made peanut butter completely unpalatable to me.

Though last year, while buying groceries to accompany the tiny fridge in my dorm room, I decided to buy some crunchy peanut butter. Why it had never even dawned on me as an option before baffled me. It’s not that my mother is unused to my ridiculous condiment demands. I can’t imagine how many discarded jars of mayonnaise have been left in the wake of my continuing search for a mayonnaise that I like that isn’t freakin Miracle Whip. And I totally love crunchy peanut butter any day of the week. It’s got the chunks of the peanuts which somehow counteract the actual peanut butter, and if I put a lot of jam on there, all you can taste is peanut chunks, which is so delicious I always have to make another one.

As far as jam goes, strawberry is good sometimes, but only the jelly. Preserves are terrible for a sandwich. Aside from the fact that they’re terrible to spread on bread, I mean, who wants freakin mushy strawberry bits on their sandwich? Ew. Same reason I hate strawberry ice cream. The minute you do something to try and preserve a strawberry past its lovely freshness it is completely ruined in flavor and texture. But take the juice and jellify it, and it’s delicious. A mystery of the universe. But alas, strawberry is second in my heart to a far more lovely colored and extraordinarily flavored gelled condiment.

Hands down every day forever and always I will always love blackberry jam. Do normal people even eat it ever? I dunno, they sell it, so I’ll take that as a yes. In fact, when it comes to purple jellies, this is what I’ve always eaten and loved. I guess I always thought it was grape, but somehow one day I realised it was not. I’m not sure I’ve ever even had grape jelly. Not that it even matters now. It will just pale horribly in comparison to my lovely blackberry jelly.

Man, I always remember even the tall, hexagonal little jars of Polaner All Fruit with the little gold caps that my British grandpa always had in the fridge. I somehow always thought it was so special. I don’t know if it was his taste for the blackberry jam that determined what we bought or not, but, for some reason, I always chalked it up to him being British and awesome that we were different with the blackberry jelly. It’s such a perfect, beautiful deep purple, especially when you spread it on the brown bread. And so sweet, but a teensy bit tart, and so perfect with butter all melted in the nooks and crannies of a toasted english muffin.

And as far as bread, I recall being enraged more than a few times at the fact that my mom refused to buy us white bread. I always wished for the far cooler crazy beautiful whiteness and lack of substantiality that my friends’ white bread provided. Then I ate it and was just angered that it stuck to the roof of my mouth with the insipid peanut butter. Now I love the wheat bread. Other than that time like, two years ago when I got ridiculous cravings for mayonnaise and ham sandwiches on white bread. I don’t even like ham. I’m still wtf-ing over that one.

Anywho, what are your PB&J preferences? Or has that gone the way of the beefaroni and been out of your food repertoire since you were 6? I’ll know you’re lying if you say that though, because everyone loves PB&J. Even people who hate peanut butter.

Well, I am finally home, and have a few hours to kill while I do my six loads of laundry. I’m so happy to be home, and it’s really really nice to see my brother (whom I have not seen since he went to VT in August — yeah, I just totally used whom. And correctly. Suck on that.), and, I have to say, even though we never really talked or got along too well as we were growing up, he’s turned into such a cool, art-doin cat, and I think I can safely say that I am super proud to call him my brother. He does so much cool stuff, and has turned into such an amazing, interesting person. And I’m not just saying that because I know my mom reads this.

Anywho, tomorrow! It begins! Usually Thanksgiving goes down something like this: I wake up at like, noon and then feel bad after I saunter downstairs to discover that my mom has already prepared 80% of the food AND done three loads of dishes (never forget the dishes!), just so she can make room in our tiny kitchen for more food that she has already made. Then I totally feel like crap when she’s all, “No, there’s not really anything for you to do.”

But alas! This year, it shan’t be like that. Aside from the fact that she bought actual pie dough that she’s gonna need me to roll out and mess with, I am ready to freakin do some dang cooking. I didn’t really miss the kitchen last year, mostly because I was too depressed to eat at all that semester, much less cook. Also, I kinda got a free pass on Thanksgiving because I was too busy being holed up in my room trying to recover from the nervous breakdown I had right before Thanksgiving break. Yaay

But this year, I am ready. I’m gonna be so obnoxious and trying to do everything, she’s gonna have to watch out. Also, if you’re reading this mom, we need to make cornbread tonight for the stuffing. I’m so excited about mashed potatoes, as smooth as my mom will let me mash them, chock full of sour cream and butter. I can’t wait for that delicious turkey gravy. There’s really no way to describe it effectively other than that it’s like no other gravy, and it has that amazing, magical holiday quality that makes me so happy(although, I could be one of the few that actually has other gravies throughout the year to be able to compare). Yeah, gravy is what puts me in the holiday season. And if you’re lucky, or amazing at it like my mom, it gets so wonderful and jellied when you put it in the fridge, and you can just scoop it out and put it on a sandwich, or throw it on some cold, overly starchy mashed potatoes and be amazed how everything is magically perfect again when you pull it out of the microwave.

I’m excited about the sweet potato souffle my mom makes. It’s not really souffle. It’s basically candied yams, except sweet potatoes instead of gross canned yams, and mashed up with a brown sugar butter and pecan topping instead of marshmallows. I find the perfectly cinnamon-y, buttered sweet potatoes so transcendent that I don’t even need the sweet candied topping. Or sweet potato pie, for that matter.

And pie!! I hate pie. The only pie I really like is key-lime pie, and that’s because it has graham cracker crust. Because the thing I hate most about pie is the overly flour-y crust, and there’s always too much of it. But I hate the fillings too. I hate pecan pie (sorry ma), and I don’t like sweet potato pie. I would say I hate pumpkin pie, but I’ve never even had it to know otherwise. And I’d kinda like to keep it that way. Don’t even get me started on pumpkin pie. That’s another entry.

But the coconut pie. I know it seems ridiculously inappropriate to have coconut pie on Thanksgiving, but my mom’s grandmother always made it, apparently, so that is what we do. Plus really, when the hell else does anyone ever eat pie, unless they live in a diner in Texas? The filling looks kinda like vomit before you bake it, I’m not even gonna lie. And you’re mixing it, and there’s chunks of butter and the coconut’s all gloppy, and you’re like, man, this is not going to turn out. But hey, you pull that sucker out of the oven, and it’s gorgeous, and you get this amazing sense of old-school Southern pride at having made a pie. The edges of the coconut shreds are all browned, so there are little toasty dots all over the surface, and there’s the slighest lemon scent wafting from it. It’s absolutely amazing, not to mention how awesome it tastes.

Well, that is all for now, I think my loads need to be switched out. And my brother fell asleep to “All My Children.” So even though it’s not even remotely cold enough to be the holidays, I might be in the holiday spirit, much to my chagrin, upon tasting my mom’s awesome gravy. Mmmmmm…